


Jealousy, Like Poisoned Wine

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, blink and you'll miss it spoilers for the alayne twow chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 10:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11849241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: Myranda is jealous.





	Jealousy, Like Poisoned Wine

“Fascinating,” Petyr Baelish drawls, and immediately her father’s brow furrows. Nestor Royce looks confused at the statement, but  she knows the tone of a man bored out of his wits all too well. The Lord Protector of the Vale favors her father with a smile that does not reach his eyes, and stretches his back with an almost catlike grace. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” Lord Petyr says cordially, “but I can hear no more of incomes and invoices. The Vale’s incomes are well intact and are stores are more than fair. Save for our lemons, of course.”  


Lord Petyr makes a small chuckle, and gives his daughter a smile warmer than anything Myranda thought him capable of. In response, the Lady Alayne blushes gracefully, a looks just the smallest bit abashed, the perfect picture of innocence. Myranda loathes that look sometimes. 

“With all respect, Lord Petyr,” her father barrels on, “these are matters of grave importance. With winter coming--”  


“Winter is no longer coming,” Lord Petyr cuts him off, and his tone is almost triumphant. “Winter is _here_ , my lord. And I have ensured that we are adequately prepared, thanks in part to my daughter’s brilliance in her dealings with our bold knights. Suggesting that they bring ‘gifts’ to our Lord of the Vale has nearly doubled our incomes.”  


Lady Alayne blushes again, but cannot disguise the look of pure pleasure that steals across her face. Lord Petyr favors her with another warm smile, and Myranda feels the slightest twinge of jealousy in her gut.

Her father does not heap praise on her, even when the Vale nobility praises her organization and her ability to run his castle. Her father had not even comforted her when her husband had died. Nestor Royce instead had blamed her for being too wanton. Absurdly, the thought crosses her mind that Lord Petyr would be the first to take his daughter into his arms and comfort her should anything befall Harry. 

_They all love her more than me_ , Myranda thinks, and struggles to keep the scowl from her face. 

She _likes_  Alayne. The girl is sweet yes, almost overly so, but she is quite funny when she wishes to be, and intelligent in that bookish way. Myranda had grown fond of finding all manner of ways to scandalise her, watching her face flush, laughing at the way one hand flew to her mouth, loving the way she giggled “ _Oh, Randa!”_

She _liked_  Alayne, genuinely, but it seemed unfair that she should get to marry Harry and have so much of her father’s love. Especially not when Alayne knows that Myranda has been trying to win her father’s attentions. How many times had she hinted to Alayne her ambitions to marry the Lord Protector?

So lost is she in her musings that she misses it when her father calls their meeting to a close. She rises just a beat after everyone else, and Alayne gives her a concerned look. Lord Nestor ignores her.

She leaves the room slowly, lets her father thunder down the hall to their rooms well ahead of her. She is just about to follow when she hears Alayne’s pleased laugh from the adjacent hallway, and turns down that one instead.

Pressing herself back into the shadows, she peers around the corner, and watches as Lord Petyr guides his daughter with a hand placed firmly at the small of her back.

“You thought the gifts were a brilliant idea, Father? Truly?” Alayne queries, gazing at Lord Petyr.   


“Truly, sweetling,” he answers her, turning to face her. With one hand still on her waist, he uses the other to cup Alayne’s face. 

“You seem to have inherited my wits,” Lord Petyr says, and kisses his daughter full on the mouth.   


When he pulls away, both he and Alayne look delighted, and they continue on to their part of the castle. 

“Fascinating,” Myranda murmurs, jealousy of a new sort bubbling away inside of her.   



End file.
